


seeing red

by velvetvelour



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Bickering, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, KIND OF. but not really actual enemies and not really actual lovers, Love/Hate, M/M, Multi, and reader fucking hates him. but do they? yes. but do they REALLY? hm, i named the fic that for a reason LOL, i rlly dont want to downplay how aggressive this reader is towards reno, its bordering on physical altercation. completely one sided tho, its hard to explain LOL, oh god here we go again, reno being a smug annoying asshole, reno's just provoking LMAO, thats the best i can describe this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29573703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetvelour/pseuds/velvetvelour
Summary: As soon as you recognize that evil smear of red outside the front window, a harsh inhale fills your lungs. You spin around and drop to the floor in quick succession, hugging your knees to your chest as you lean flat against the bar and irritatedly chewing on your thumb nail.What the fuck is he doing here?
Relationships: Reno (Compilation of FFVII)/Reader, Reno (Compilation of FFVII)/You, Reno/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	seeing red

**Author's Note:**

> wow! hi!
> 
> ok. i know that reno is the absolute LAST ff7 character who is in need of any more fics. he must star in at least 60% of them altogether. and writing this means ive been neglecting my story abt vincent, who is in far more pressing need of content. but the thing is... i had a little idea. that's all i can say for myself.
> 
> a lot of reno stories involve him being a smug, flirtatious, cocky asshole, while the reader character is somewhat annoyed or frustrated by him, though, of course, simultaneously very attracted to him to add a layer of Tension~ .... i wanted to push that a little further than most do and put a heavy emphasis on the "annoyed and frustrated." basically i liked the idea of reno finding someone who seems to completely hate his guts, and...being very oddly into that! so yeah, this isnt just a cutely "tsundere" reader. they straight up want to choke him out!
> 
> also, i figured that if rude canonically has a crush on tifa, there must be some reason they know each other at at least the level of acquaintances, and i dont know if there's an actual canon explanation for that outside of the games (or that i missed within the games), but it seemed as good a guess as any to assume he used to frequent seventh heaven, and reno would naturally tag along. ya know. before they dropped the plate on sector 7. yikes. so yeah this takes place well before cloud comes around.
> 
> i'm experimenting in posting this fic "backwards." i'll elaborate in the end note.

It’s a pretty slow evening at Seventh Heaven.

Not that it’s ever too much to handle, especially when you’re around to help. Celebrations, birthday parties and the like tend to garner more overwhelming numbers, but hardly anyone around here has a high enough salary to indulge in that sort of thing too often. Topsiders, military types, and miscellaneous managers and executives--all those blessed with a hearty Shinra payroll--would obviously rather indulge themselves in the pristine clubs and bougie bars of the upper cities than hoof it down to the slums for a cheap drink. All but...a few, at least.

Tonight, you count 7 patrons currently, maybe 16 altogether so far. Two strangers at the bar, the rest spread out among the tables. No one’s in want of a refill yet and Tifa’s busy cleaning glasses behind you, so you’ve been leaning over the countertop accompanied by your freerunning thoughts for at least fifteen minutes. You wish something…interesting would happen.

Of course, “interesting” can mean a lot of things around here--most of them bad. Though, admittedly, you wouldn’t mind watching the spectacle of Tifa quite literally  _ kicking  _ out a rude drunk or a handsy jerk right about now. Once, someone was stupid enough to try and rob the place, but you doubt anyone would be quick to attempt that maneuver again after seeing the condition she left the last poor fool in. 

You’re supposed to be learning, though. It’s hard to do that when there’s nothing happening to learn from, but you suppose you could consider this a lesson in patience. Surely, not letting yourself get bored to death is among the skillsets of master bartenders such as the lovely woman behind the counter with you. You aren’t sure if that can quite be said for the ones that tend to the vigorous and neverending clientele of Wall Market, though, so maybe you’re wasting your evening after all.

A woman at the bar silently taps her glass against the table a couple times, pulling your attention back to the world in front of you, and you absentmindedly fill her glass for her. Once that miniscule distraction is over, you sigh. Tifa chuckles behind you.

“Want another rush like last Saturday?” she teases. “I’m sure you’d have no time to be bored with that many customers.”

“Bored?” you repeat incredulously. “How can I be bored when I’m blessed by your delightful company?” 

“Good answer,” she praises. 

The evening lulls on without much out of the ordinary, patrons coming and going in dwindling numbers, though the quiet, peaceful atmosphere and the droning music of the jukebox makes for a decently pleasant time nonetheless. 

But, apparently, all good things really must come to an end. 

There’s a bit of a commotion outside, so you assume a new group of would-be customers have arrived, the distant sound of footsteps rising up the porch steps supporting the idea. Of course, it couldn’t just be a  _ regular  _ customer, though, could it? 

As soon as you recognize that evil smear of red outside the front window, a harsh inhale fills your lungs. You spin around and drop to the floor in quick succession, hugging your knees to your chest as you lean flat against the bar and irritatedly chewing on your thumb nail. 

What the fuck is  _ he  _ doing here?

“Ah,” notes Tifa, returning behind the bar from wiping tables and noticing your odd display. “What’s this about?”

“Shh,” is all you can say. “I’m not here.”

“Eh?” She makes a confused sound, and you can’t see her face as she looks over the counter, but you get the sense that she finally notices what you saw. “Oh, I get it now. Your bo--”

“Don’t even joke like that,” you whisper-shout at her, hugging yourself tighter. “Kick him out this time. Please.”

“Doesn’t that seem like more trouble than it’s worth?” she sighs, like she wouldn’t particularly mind actually doing so if he wasn’t so damn difficult to get rid of. Like a  _ cockroach. _ “You know he’ll fight back. Did something happen?”

_ “No,”  _ you respond insistently. “I’m just…  _ tired  _ of those Turk bastards drinking all our alcohol. How can you even stand serving them?” 

“Well, it’s not like they’re on the clock when they come by,” she notes, but you really don’t get how that makes it any better. “Plus, for the record, it’s  _ my  _ alcohol they’re drinking.”

“Barret doesn’t like them here, either,” you remind her.

“And that’s only a problem when Barret is actually here,” she counters. “My bar, my rules. ...But seriously, did something happen? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You’re tempted to say yes, if only because that would probably succeed in getting her to kick him out, but you’d feel too guilty about it afterwards if the bar ended up wrecked because of your bold-faced lie.

“Nothing happened,” you maintain firmly. “But if he comes in here, I’m killing him.”

“Ah. Well, in that case, I guess I’d better find you a body bag in the next five seconds.”

You look up sharply, now able to see her expression as she watches the door, but you don’t even have time to curse before you hear it swing open. 

That awful, obnoxious laughter grates on your ears as he undoubtedly struts in like he owns the place, bringing with him the stale scent of cigarette smoke, and the dual pairs of footsteps let you know he’s probably brought that stoic coworker of his along with him as well. Great. Even Tifa would have trouble kicking both of them out.

Luck must be at least a little bit on your side, though--the footsteps clearly stop at one of the tables, rather than at the bar itself, so you at least won’t have to hold your breath like your life depends on it to remain undetected.

“What can I start you off with tonight?” Tifa calls out to them with only minimal reluctance, ever the pleasant hostess.

“Mm, whisky,” says the demon. “Neat.”

“Make that two,” the quiet partner adds.

“Coming right up.”

The unaltered drinks are very quick to pour, and the sound of footsteps coming to retrieve them makes you clench your everything in anxiety, having no way of telling which one of them it is, but the sound retreats quickly enough that you can relax.

Tifa waits a few moments, making sure no one is looking in her direction, and then kneels behind the counter with a swiftness that far surpasses even your own. She gives you a wide grin, like she thinks this is funny. 

“Is there a reason you’re hiding this time?” she tries once more. “Usually, you don’t mind making their drinks and humoring him a little.”

“Just don’t feel like it tonight,” you mumble. She seems unconvinced.

“You don’t have to tell me if you really don’t want to, but I can tell _something_ happened,” she accuses. “I know you’re not just shy all of the sudden.”

You’re fully aware you’re being ridiculous, hiding like this--you didn’t even think it through enough to save your knees the hardship and go hide in the back room instead--so, honestly, the least you could do is try to explain why you feel the need to make a fool out of yourself while you’re technically still on the clock, as distressing as it is to think about.

You swore never to speak of it to anyone--but, hell, you also didn’t think you’d have to run into him again so soon. Knowing Reno, though, you shouldn’t have expected him to give you any sort of grace period to get over it.

“...Remember when I, uh…” You almost clear your throat, but stop yourself just short. “...couldn’t come in cause I hurt my ankle like a week ago?”

“Yes,” she says carefully, but then her face takes on something fierce. “Did  _ he  _ do that?”

_ “No,” _ you assert, though you hate to have to be the one to  _ defend  _ him. “....Well, kinda. But, no, that’s not-- It’s just, when I was walking home--”

“Oi, Tifa!” His sudden shout makes you jump, and you slam your hand over your mouth in fear. Did he hear you?! “The hell did she go...?”

Tifa rolls her eyes, then nods for you to continue. You take a breath, then inhale to speak, and--

_ “Tifa!” _ comes the ear-splitting voice again. “Thinks she can slack off ‘cause it’s just us, huh? Jeez… Why’d you wanna come to this shithole, anyway, Rude?”

Rude is silent for many seconds. “...You’re the one who wanted to come here.”

“Ah, shut up,” Reno grumbles, and then, horrifyingly, you hear the scrape of a chair being pushed back, and the pointed clacking of expensive footsteps in your direction. “If I have to drag her back out here myself,  _ fine, _ I will.”

You look at Tifa with panicked eyes, and when Reno’s steps get a little too close to the bar door for comfort, you’re reminded once again of why Tifa is your bestest, most favorite friend in the whole world as she suddenly pops back up, standing so close to your hidden figure that the side of her leg presses fully against you. 

“What was that about dragging me somewhere?” she asks sweetly. 

You hear a little squeak, which must be Reno reacting to her unintentional jumpscare. His footsteps redirect, cursing under his breath as he goes, and it sounds like he must be directly across from her now.

“The fuck were you doing down there?”

Tifa leans heavily forward suddenly, and you hear a few hurried steps backwards and a click of his tongue. You nearly sigh in relief when you recognize Tifa’s rescue--he must’ve tried to look over the counter.

“Rearranging spare glasses,” she explains offhandedly. “Need a refill, then?”

“...Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, seemingly put off by the strange behavior. Either that, or he’s thinking. You hope to God he isn’t thinking. “...Where’s your little friend, by the way?”

Your throat clenches in stress, but the shock of being referenced doesn’t nearly equate to your rage at being referred to as her “little friend.” You’re  _ older  _ than her--by  _ multiple  _ years--and he  _ knows  _ it! 

“Home, probably,” she surmises. “They’re not working today, if that’s what you really want to know.”

“...That so?” he asks with just enough doubt in his voice to make your heart rate increase, then hums thoughtfully. “...Cause, ya know, I just stopped by their place on the way here. Didn’t seem like anyone was home.”

You grit your teeth; that  _ better  _ be a fucking bluff.

“Must’ve had the wrong place, then,” Tifa explains, turning around to grab the bottle of whisky.

“Oh, no,” he says, very lowly. Your stomach drops. “I _definitely_ wouldn’t forget it.” 

Tifa seems to hesitate for a moment, and it makes you cringe.

“...Either way,” Tifa continues eventually, clearing her throat, “they aren’t  _ here _ . I can pass on a message, if you want.”

The drama queen sighs. “...Nah, forget about it. It’s, uh, nothin’  _ you’d _ wanna hear anyway, if you catch my drift.” His voice is stained by that terrible smirk of his, and the urge to jump over the counter and just throttle him is almost irresistible.

Tifa evidently has nothing else to say as she takes the bottle and follows him back to his table, refilling their glasses and returning. There isn’t a word spoken until she’s back behind the bar.

“...Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have glasses to re-organize.”

Just like that, she’s back down at your level, and the look on her face is something severe. 

“...You  _ didn’t,” _ she says gravely.

“No, I  _ really  _ didn’t!” you whisper-shout back. “He’s just saying weird shit on purpose. Like he  _ always  _ does!”

Her face twists a little bit more, somewhere between pity and revulsion, and it’s as if she didn’t hear your frantic plea of innocence at all. “...With  _ Reno?” _

“Tifa, he’s  _ lying _ . Please give me a little more credit than that.” 

“Well, you  _ are _ acting pretty weird about him tonight...”

“Do you really think I’d  _ ever  _ let him--?!” You cut yourself off, suppressing a frustrated groan. “Can we please just move on? He’s  _ trying  _ to give you the wrong idea.”

“Why would he stop at your home?” she asks with a furrowed brow. “You told me you’d rather die than let him know where you sleep at night. Or, then, was that a lie, too?”

In an act of betrayal, your face radiates a shameful heat, and your expression must match at least somewhat, because Tifa’s eyes blow wide open, and yours follow soon after in panic.

_ “No, _ no, no, it’s-- it’s not even  _ remotely  _ what you think,” you try to explain. “Like I said before, when I hurt my ankle, he--”

“Ya know, it’s pretty  _ rude  _ to talk about someone while they’re sittin’ right across the room.”

Both you and Tifa jump at the sound of that painfully familiar voice, and a moment later, his stupid face comes into view peeking over the edge of the bar. Evidently, you were too absorbed with defending your honor to hear him coming.

“Heh. Found ya!”

The mere sight of that evil smirk reminds you of your fury, and instantly, you’re scrambling to get up. He darts back immediately, and, unfortunately, the glass--which you don’t even recall picking up--goes directly through the space where his head  _ should  _ have been, shattering to bits on the far wall behind him while he remains tragically unscathed. 

“Hey, Sunshine,” he jeers, only looking more amused than before. “Miss me?”

“Unfortunately,” you deadpan. “Get out or I’ll kill you.”

“Why so hasty?” He raises his hands in innocent surrender. “Can’t a guy have a few drinks after a hard day’s work? I’m a paying customer, aren’t I?” 

“Finish your drink and die.”

He seems to think something is funny, but you can’t imagine what. You’re about ready to try another glass. 

Despite his words, he does not return to his drink, but rather takes a bold seat on the stool directly in front of you. Your unending glare is met with an aloof grin, and it remains like that for a few moments. Tifa eventually sighs, painfully used to this routine, walking around you and heading into the back room, muttering something about sweeping up the glass as she goes.

“You gonna make me a drink, or what?”

You scoff. “You have one. Go choke on it.”

He waves you off. “Rude can handle both of ours, can’t ya, Rude?” Even as he addresses his partner across the room, his eyes stay fixed on you. Rude does not respond, but you think you hear him sigh. “...Nah, I want  _ you  _ to make me something.”

All you do is glare at him, clutching the edge of the counter so as not to reach forward and yank that stupid ponytail out of his head.

“Something special,” he continues, his grin only widening. “Go ahead and surprise me. I promise I’ll tip ya real well.” Apparently, he doesn’t value his life very much, because he even has the audacity to wink at you.

...Fine. You’ll make him a drink. It’ll be your pleasure, actually. 

You work in silence, mixing together whatever comes to mind--a dash of rum, vodka, triple sec, whatever’ll make it smell as harsh and eye-watering as possible--and pouring it into a glass, held rigidly in your fingers.

When you attempt to throw it in his face, he anticipates the aggression and shoots his hand out to grab the glass before you can swing it forward. Some of it sloshes over his fingers, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

“Oi, you wouldn’t wanna make a mess all over your friend’s nice counter, now, would you?”

You roll your eyes heavily, during which you catch a glance of Rude now standing beside Tifa, sweeping up the glass in her stead...for some reason. It’s strange enough of a sight to reset your mind, and your eyes lock back onto Reno with a new idea.

...Fine. You won’t throw it in his face.

Leaning forward, you spit directly into the glass.

Reno’s eyebrows actually raise as he watches you do so, and he glances between you and the glass a few times. You finally break out a pleasant little smile.

That is, until he starts to raise the glass to his mouth anyway, and it falls away in shock and repulsion.

His grip on the glass overlaps your own with a tight squeeze, so you’re essentially forced to join him in the disgusting gesture as he places the glass against his lips and forcibly downs it, throwing the entire thing back before slamming the glass back down onto the counter. Groaning, his face scrunches up for a second--you refrained from using mixers or anything to soften the blow, hoping it’d burn his eyes more when you dumped it on him--but when the expression falls away, only that trademark smirk is left behind. 

_ “Hoo, _ that had some bite to it,” he says, hitting his needlessly bare chest with his fist a couple times. “Damn. Razor sharp. Kinda like you, huh?”

You’re really gonna kill him. 

Snatching the glass away, you turn around to wash it, taking absolutely any excuse to get him out of your sight and debating whether or not you should just turn tail and make a break for the front door. When you’re done and you reluctantly turn back to check on him again, he’s just watching you, idly licking the spilled alcohol from his fingers. Something snaps inside you at the sight.

“What is it you get out of coming here, huh?” you ask suddenly, somewhere in the realm of accusation. “I  _ know  _ you make enough to afford those gaudy topside bars. Is it really just to harass me?”

“Harass  _ you?” _ he asks incredulously with an obnoxious, disbelieving chuckle. “Sweetheart, the only one getting harassed here is me. You know, if I told any one of my  _ friends  _ back at HQ about the stunt you just pulled with that drink, I could get this whole place shut down overnight.”

Even as he says it, he seems to be doing nothing but thoroughly enjoying himself; though, the passive threat still hardens your glare and drops a weight in your stomach. He… wouldn’t actually do that, would he?

Your worry must show somehow, because his smirk just widens, a little snicker following as he leans back on the stool and stretches. It pulls his shirt even more obscenely open than it already is.

“Ah,  _ relax _ , would ya?” he teases. “I’m not gonna rat out your customer abuse.”

“Because you enjoy it too much,” you surmise with disgust.

“What, like  _ you  _ don’t?” he scoffs, shaking his head at you. “You’re not foolin’ anyone, ya know.”

“Do you wanna eat glass, you red-headed fucking--?”

“See, there you go again,” he interrupts, leaning forward to rest his arms on the bar delightedly, and you jerk yourself back before he gets too close. “Calling me names over and over, throwing shit at me even though you know damn well it won’t hit, squeezin’ yourself down behind the bar just to try and hide from me. Now, I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell wouldn’t lift a goddamn  _ finger  _ over someone I  _ really  _ hated.”

“You’re right,” you snap, unwilling to humor him. “You  _ don’t  _ know about me.”

“I just think it’s a little  _ funny, _ ya know?” he continues with a shrug, despite no one having asked. “How easily you could just ignore me, refuse to give me the time of day. Hell, even right now, you could’ve run off to the back the second I sat down and waited there until I left. But you never do. Nah, you give me all the attention I could ask for, every damn time.”

Aggravatingly, you don’t even know how to respond to that without proving his stupid fucking point. You could claim it just isn’t in your nature--which  _ is _ true--and that you’d rather take the direct approach to making him leave you the fuck alone, but you can’t deny that it never actually works the way you want it to, and that you...just keep doing it, anyway. The lack of response has thrust you into some sort of vicious staring contest, not a word said on either side, but before either of you can come out on top, the sound of someone clearing their throat steals your attention away. Not Reno’s, though, he just keeps staring at you with that stupid shit-eating grin. Damnit, does that mean he won?

It’s Tifa. Somehow, you didn’t even notice her step up to the other side of the bar beside Reno, the broom and dustpan back in her hands. 

“Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure anyone who walks in is gonna walk right back out when they see...whatever’s going on here,” she warns, and then points at you. “If you scare away my customers, it’s coming out of your salary.”

“What salary?” you sigh. It only then comes to your attention that the few straggling patrons from earlier have all disappeared while you were busy dealing with Reno. Well...it’s  _ his  _ fault!

“The one I’d consider giving you if you’d stop throwing my glasses at obnoxious patrons.” She says that like you don’t buy her a shiny new replacement for every one you break.

Reno flashes a grin.

“For the record, if you’d have kicked him out like I asked you to, I wouldn’t have had to throw the glass,” you argue.

“And if  _ you’d  _ have let me know  _ why  _ you so desperately needed him kicked out, I might’ve done that for you.”

Reno looks between you two with interest, but his eyes, of course, ultimately close back in on you.

“Wanted me gone that bad tonight, huh?” he hums, tilting his head back to look at you with narrowed eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re still embarrassed about the  _ last  _ time we saw each other?”

Tifa reaches over the bar and grabs your wrist before you can launch another glass, and the would-be target just snickers at you with a frustrating lack of fear for his well-being.

“No more broken glass,” she demands, then trustingly releases you to go get rid of the first pile of shards you created.  _ Fine _ . No more broken glass.

You groan in frustration, but funnel it into making another simple drink as fast as you physically can. Reno watches attentively until you slam another glass down in front of him with finality.

“Drink it and shut up.”

He raises an eyebrow, and, given that he didn’t notice you do anything obviously offensive while you were making it, he feels inclined to take a couple cursory sniffs of the drink before his experimental sip. 

His concern is needless, though. If you had poisoned him or something, you probably would’ve wanted him to  _ know  _ you were trying to kill him. The sad truth of that makes you sigh heavily as you stomp your way into the back room and put on your coat. 

“I’m leaving,” you inform Tifa resolutely. 

“Well, goodnight,” she sighs, most likely glad to get rid of you before you’re driven to make even more of a mess. “But, if you leave now, you know he’ll probably just follow you, right?”

You hesitate in your steps, your hand hovering above the doorknob, and your head falls forward defeatedly. 

“...Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

"I could  _ try _ to keep him here if you want me to, but--"

"Don't bother," you interrupt monotonously. "It won't work."

As you storm out of the back and make your way to the entrance, Reno’s eyes lock onto you instantly with active interest, and you catch him hurriedly raising his drink to his mouth, apparently throwing this one back as quick as he can as well. He scrambles to his feet just as you reach the door.

“Goddamn masochist,” you mutter under your breath.

“You got the tab, don’tcha, partner?” he calls out behind him, and by the time you make it to the bottom of the steps, he’s already made it to your side, only slightly off-kilter from all the chugging he’s been doing tonight.

You wrap your arms around yourself and walk as fast as you can, but, of course, he has no trouble keeping your pace. At the very least, you hope he scuffs his shitty leather dress shoes on the rugged path.   


“Figured I’d walk you home,” he announces proudly, intertwining his hands behind his head. “Since I’m such a nice guy, and all.”

There’s got to be  _ some  _ way to get rid of him. Since he obviously only ever takes pleasure in the malice you throw his way, shouting at him or trying to hit him is only gonna make him cling onto you even tighter, as much as it bothers you to face that fact. What in the world could actually scare off someone like Reno? 

“...Aren’t you tired?” you ask abruptly, no particular venom to your voice, and his face contorts into something visibly dumbfounded. You take a deep breath and continue. “Pretty long day at work, I’d guess, and I’m sure none of what you do is very pleasant. You must be exhausted.”

His pace slows down unintentionally, and he has to jog for a second to catch back up with you.

“Hey, whuh-- _ what?” _ he stammers dumbly. “You hit your head back there, or something?”

“I’m saying you should go home, Reno,” you continue calmly. “Get some rest. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“That’s, uh--” He clears his throat. “That’s a real weird way to try and get me to fuck off.”

You sigh. “Yeah, well, like you said, my usual approach isn’t very effective. Thought I’d mix it up a little.”

“If _ that’s  _ the other option, I think I’d prefer the abuse,” he says with an attempted chuckle.

“I’m sure you would,” you mutter sharply under your breath, but then steel yourself to continue. “...Well, if you don’t want to go home, you could at least come rest at my place for a while.”

This time, he stops completely. Realizing this, you stop as well, a few feet in front of him, but you don’t turn around to look at him in fear of losing your nerve--for some reason, this odd, impulsive strategy that you were sure you’d have to pass off as a bad joke actually seems to be working on him. 

“...You’re really freakin’ me out, you know that?” It’s true; you can hear it in his voice, and you laugh a little in spite of yourself.

“It’s cold out tonight,” you point out as well. “You should button up your shirt so you don’t get sick.”

“Plenty warm from all that  _ gasoline  _ you had me drink,” he attempts to quip back, but it comes off as more cautious than anything. Hm… What could  _ really  _ knock him down a peg?

“...I bet you’re pretty hungry, huh?” you say, preparing to deal the final blow. “You’re so damn skinny, it makes me wonder if you eat enough. I always thought you seemed like the type to skip breakfast. I can cook something for you, if you want. I haven’t had dinner yet either, so we can eat together.”

There’s utterly no response. He makes a strange, quiet, high-pitched noise that baffles you into curiosity, and when you turn around, he’s looking at you like you’re completely insane.

More than that, though, you’re glad he made the mistake of choosing to stop so close to a streetlight, because you’re given a perfect illumination of the utterly unbelievable sight of Reno’s face attempting to match the shade of his hair.

You’ve seen him blush from drunkenness before--a light dusting of pink over his face that explains the occasional slurring of his words, threatening to obscure the tattoos that frame his eyes on more indulgent nights--but this...this is a very different beast. It’s an undeniable, fierce, concentrated rouge that he couldn’t hope to blame solely on the drinks he’s had tonight, his knit brow and slackened jaw only striking gratuitous nails in the coffin. You’ve flustered him quite severely.

The shock of it makes your eyes pop open wide as well, and at that, he seems to finally realize what you must see and jump with a start, turning his back to you and cursing under his breath. You’re too stunned to even make fun of him. 

“I should, ah, probably get back to Rude,” he mutters, and you’re further baffled to hear a slight stutter in his voice. He clears his throat. “You, uh-- you know how he gets around Tifa. Real fuckin’ embarrassing. So, uh… See ya.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and makes like he intends to run off, and you don’t know what the hell possesses you to do so when getting rid of him was your intention all along, but  _ something  _ compels you to reach out and lock your hand around his elbow to stop him. He squeaks.

“...Reno.”

His shoulders jump a little.

“Could you not fuckin’ say my name like that?” he grumbles. “You got what you wanted, alright? I’m leaving, so let go.”

You stay quiet, and his impatience gets the better of him, willing him to turn his head around to give you a sour, pink-tinged look. The sight of it makes something click in your brain.

...Huh.

“...You said you’d walk me home,” you remind him.

_ “Huh?” _ he questions loudly, tugging his arm back (though, not strong enough to break your grip, you note). “I only said that cause I knew you’d  _ hate  _ it.”

“Well… I don’t,” you argue. “I want you to.”

“Wha…? Just  _ quit  _ it already, alright?” he urges.  _ “Enough.  _ You’re really fuckin’ creeping me out here.”

“You don’t look creeped out,” you accuse. “You look embarrassed.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fuck off. I’m not fuckin’ embarrassed.” 

You raise your free hand to muffle a giggle.

“I’ve never seen you get this defensive. It’s…” You can’t believe you’re about to say this, but… “...It’s kind of cute.”

His eyes damn near pop out of his head.

“C’mon,” you urge, pulling his arm back, and his shock makes him a little more pliant to being tugged back in your direction. “Hurry, before I change my mind. I’ll probably hate you again tomorrow.”

He makes a very difficult expression, his eyes looking around uneasily at nothing in particular, and eventually, he groans very loudly, snatching his arm free and turning around to keep walking the path towards your home.

_ “Alright, _ alright,” he snaps, though he’s pointedly keeping himself a few steps ahead of you. “Since you keep on  _ beggin’  _ me, I guess I have no choice, huh?”

His attempt to regain some control of the situation falls flat, given the shaken tone of his voice, and you can’t help but smirk a little. Man, is  _ this  _ why he keeps on fucking with you all the time? You guess you finally understand him a little bit. 

“Ah, Reno,” you whine, watching with pleasure as he jerks a little at the sound. “Stay close, okay? It’s dangerous around here.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ll protect me, won’t you?” you call out again, maintaining that deceptively sweet tone of voice that bothers him so much.

“I’m doin’ what you asked, okay?!” he shouts back. “So, cut it out!”

Nearly giddy at this point, you skip forward and swiftly slip your arm under his.

“Ah, fuckin’ hell,” he grunts, turning his face away from you. Too bad it still shows on the tips of his ears. “Thought you didn’t wanna be seen with me ever again after last time, huh? What happened to that?”

“It held true until a couple minutes ago,” you explain nonchalantly. “Now that I’ve found out how to  _ really  _ torture you, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“Give it a fuckin’ rest,” he groans, trying desperately to act unaffected. “You know what? I knew it was a bad idea to come down here tonight. Shoulda listened to my instincts.”

“But you just couldn’t resist the thought of seeing me, huh?”

He just sort of grumbles something under his breath (you think you catch the word “cocky” somewhere in there), and after that, you go quiet for a while. Without the contentious banter, you’re just two people, locked at the arms, strolling down the ragged streets together, and you know exactly how it must come off--hell, you  _ hated  _ how acutely you knew that the last time you walked home with him--but for some reason, it’s not bothering you nearly as much as it should right now. It’s… a little different when you’ve got him under your thumb, you guess.

“...Tifa mentioned she’s not paying you,” Reno speaks up eventually, his voice oddly natural--without that tinge of smugness or malicious intent you’re so used to hearing. “Why the hell do you work there if you’re not getting paid? Doesn’t look like she  _ needs  _ the help.”

“She’s paying me in knowledge,” you explain. “I’ve, uh, got a job lined up. Friend of a friend sort of deal. But, I don’t have quite enough experience bartending to accept it yet. Soon as I do, I’m off to Sector 6.”

“Sector 6?”

“Wall Market,” you elaborate. You don’t even know why you’re telling him all this, but there isn’t much harm in it, you suppose. “I know how that sounds, but it’ll be much better pay than any job around here. I’d be stupid to turn it down.”

He clicks his tongue like something you said annoyed him. “You sure this ‘friend of a friend’ of yours is actually worth shit?” he asks sourly. “You get a job at a bar in Wall Market, it’s not your  _ drink mixing  _ skills they’re gonna be paying you for. Assuming there’s an ounce of truth to any of that in the first place.”

Something about this cynical concern of his annoys you. You might be holding onto his arm right now, but that sure as hell doesn’t make him your fucking  _ boyfriend. _ “I’m not turning it down,” you assert. “I’ve been planning this for months. If you’re so worried about it, I guess you’ll just have to change which bar you frequent.”

“‘M not worried,” he argues sullenly. “I’m just sayin’, you better know exactly what you’re gettin’ yourself into. Awful shit happens to people in Wall Market. Terrible,  _ repulsive  _ shit. You make a wrong move down there, and you might never see the light of day again.”

He’s not telling you anything you don’t already know. “...Guess you’d have to find someone else to push you around, then.”

He snorts, but he doesn’t seem any less annoyed. “Not like anyone else’d enjoy it as much as  _ you  _ do.”

You use the opportunity of your arms being linked to elbow him in the side and he grunts, then bumps you with his shoulder in retaliation, forcing you to hold him tighter to keep your balance. 

“Careful,” he teases. “Better watch that ankle.”

You huff out a breath, controlling yourself. He is  _ not  _ going to flip this situation back in his favor.

Gradually, your arm lowers, loosens its grip, so that by the time you’ve stopped at your front door, the two of you are no longer connected. 

Needless to say, there’s a strange atmosphere between you.

It’s too quiet; given the time, there aren’t many people out, no children running down the beaten paths, no sounds of human society churning around you. If you strain your ears, you’re only met with the gentle rustling, chirping, fluttering of distant animals and insects. It must be getting to Reno too, because he rifles through his pockets, turning to lean his back against the wall next to your door and bringing a cigarette to his lips. He curses around it as he struggles with his lighter, failing to ignite its flame throughout multiple attempts, and you sigh, fishing your own out of your pocket and holding it out towards him.

“Nervous I might actually invite you in?” you joke, lighting the flame with an easy flick.

He stares between you and the flame suspiciously, but, resigning himself to it, he leans over to accept your light. It’s a long drag before he meets your eyes again.

“It’s nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he shoots back. It doesn’t have much bite to it. 

You could invite him in, if you want. There’s no telling whether he’d actually accept, what with how he acted when you joked about it earlier. It’s a little  _ too  _ easy to picture him sitting at your table right now, dress coat abandoned over top of his chair, filling the still air with more of this noxious smoke. It wouldn’t be what  _ he  _ might expect, but you could at least make some coffee and let him exist around you a little longer while it inexplicably doesn’t bother you for him to do so. Maybe even cook something. You don’t feel like yourself at all right now, but you doubt it’ll last very long.

If you try to say anything else, it might be something very seriously out of character, so you’re content to keep your mouth shut, but something unspoken is keeping you here. The door is right there, you could slip away and slam it in his face in mere seconds, and his cigarette smoke is starting to give you a headache, but you’re still just standing there. 

Eventually, he drops the butt and stomps it out in the dirt.

He’s the first to make a move; though, somehow, it’s not the one you expected. Reno pushes himself off of the wall, taking a few steps away and turning on his heels to face you with his hands deep in his pockets.

“Guess I’ll see you around, then, Sunshine,” he announces with a smirk, slipping back into his usual demeanor--though, something’s still off about it. He doesn’t hold your gaze for very long. “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?”

You don’t know what to say. Content without a response (as it isn’t exactly unusual for you to refuse to give him one), he turns back around and starts walking. A jolt in your stomach pushes you forward, a few steps in his direction, just barely out of arm’s reach.

“Reno--”

“Not tonight.” He cuts you off instantly, lazily waving you off over his shoulder. You’re...taken aback. He turns his head just a little, enough for you to see the corner of his lips pull upwards again. “Some other night, maybe. Alright?”

He leaves you, stunned still, with a two-finger salute. You don’t regain yourself until he’s out of sight, slowly turning back around to face your front door, but even as you reach for the handle, your brain is stuck in a processing loop.

Did  _ he _ ...just reject... _ you? _

It clicks back into place all of the sudden, and your grip on the door knob turns into a deathly vice. 

That... _ asshole! _

_ “Stupid  _ fucking--!” You cut yourself off with an annoyed groan, finally opening the door and slamming it behind you with everything you’ve got.

Like a flood, it all hits you again; a comprehensive reminder of exactly why you can’t stand the sight of him, why you feel inclined to lob things at his head damn near every time you see him. God, you can’t  _ believe  _ you let yourself get wrapped up in his unusual behavior and forget how goddamn  _ annoying  _ he is. You were about to invite him _ into your home!  _ Part of you almost wants to thank him for stopping you short!

You’re still simmering over this by the time you find yourself in bed, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling, unable to purge your mind of the image of that blushing face in the streetlight. Damn him. Next time he shows his face at Seventh Heaven, you’re gonna kill him.

You’re  _ definitely  _ gonna kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone else absolutely in love with the idea of reno being actively into someone who is constantly aggressive towards him and tells him to fuck off on sight, while also being extremely severely allergic to like, normal human tenderness? just me? i know it's not just me.

**Author's Note:**

> as i said before, im posting this backwards. by that i mean, i originally intended for two chapters, and the second one will take place chronologically before the first one, detailing the prior event that is alluded to repeatedly throughout it. i do have a pretty good idea for a potential "epilogue" chapter, though, so depending on how much support this little fic gets, i'll consider finishing it off with a third.
> 
> if you like this story, please consider letting me know in a comment! there's no better way to let me know that you're interested in more, and actually motivate me to create it!


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